Quinton
by sweetconformity
Summary: Werewolf!Klaine, Alpha!Blaine/Omega!Kurt.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Apologizing in advance for all the errors. This is poorly edited and basically a test run. Sorry!

**Chapter 1**

Kurt

* * *

It's sweltering hot in Quinton during the summers, but it's worth seeing the butterflies roam about and flutter from flower to flower and the animals chipper in the forest, it's also much much better than winter. When dawn breaks and the sun sets, the night is the perfect time for shifting, the wind easy and pleasant against fur, but it's unconventional and dangerous for an omega like Kurt.

Kurt squints his eyes against the bright sun, clutching a weaved basket at his hip. He pins a pair of his breeches onto the clothesline followed by one of his father's maroon overalls as best he can against the blinding light. Once he's sure he's got it secured tightly against the light breeze, he blinks his eyes a couple of times to make sure he still has his sight, 'Kurt if you keep staring up at the sky you'll go blind!' his mother used to say.

Kurt heads to side of his house, down a small pebbly path leading to a garden patch enclosed by a short wooden fence. It's been about seventy days since Kurt planted seeds and he wonders if it's about time to harvest his ears of corn and perhaps trade it to Gordon for some deer meat. If that doesn't work out he'll have to use some of goat milk he was hoping to make cheese with. His father hasn't gone hunting since he fell ill a month ago and he doesn't want to be a burden to the Jones for constantly taking a part of their hunt.

He kneels down next to the corn, his lips pull up in a smile when he sees that the silk on the ear is dark brown. He pulls down the husk a bit and sees that the kernels have grown fully - he'll pick them tomorrow. He rises to his feet, whistling a tune, and returns back inside of his little nook.

His home isn't much, a plain square log cabin, one room that houses the kitchen, two mats for sleep, and a firepit for essential warmth during the winter. Again, it isn't a lot, but Kurt reckons it's something, and it isn't as unfortunate as the Evans have been as of late after they got kicked off their property of twenty years for failure to pay taxes.

In the corner of the cabin, Kurt catches his father's breathing form. He steps forward and leans to the side to grip the damp cloth inside of a bale of water and uses it to press onto his father's feverish forehead.

"I'm going down to the river to get us more water dad and I'll probably check my traps to see if any rabbits wandered into them, maybe we could get a good meal tonight, huh?" Kurt looks into his father's dim eyes.

Burt mumbles lowly in response.

"What was that father?" Kurt rubs the side of his father's arm, encouraging him to speak.

After a couple of coughs Burt repeats, "Don't go alone."

"Don't worry, I was planning on asking Tina if she wanted to tag along." Kurt removes the cloth, folds it then leaves it across Burt's forehead again, "Keep this cloth on your head until it's warm now." Kurt directs, grabbing the bucket beside him, "I'll see you before the sun is down."

When Kurt passes the doorway, he wants to turn back. He can only help so much though, there are other ways he can be more useful for Burt and right now that's getting food and keeping the guards off his back by paying the bills.

Onto the dirt path Kurt waves generously to his neighbor who's currently sending his hammer down onto the steaming red side of a short sword. With nod of acknowledgement in return, Kurt heads on past the clucking chickens in Mrs. Robinson's yard and turns into a patch of grass in front of a shack.

Mike, Tina's mate, is chopping tree trunks into small splints. When he spots Kurt he smiles lightly and motions for him to come over. Kurt takes a tentative step forward, remembering when he'd disturbed Mike last time - during Tina and Mike's honeymoon phase, a process that he'd been sorely uneducated about. Apparently all of an alpha's senses were heightened ten fold and hormones which included possessiveness of one's mate. He'd been scared of out his wits when Mike had immediately shifted into a burly amber wolf, snarling viciously. Kurt's only saving grace was his omega scent, one who submits and does not take. He left the yard immediately, he wouldn't make the same mistake again.

"Kurt's here!" Mike shouts through the side window, taking Kurt out of his vivid memory.

Kurt walks down their small trail and up the front steps to meet Tina at the door.

"You're absolutely glowing!" Kurt jumps excitedly, looking down at Tina's tiny swollen belly.

"Thank you" Tina blushes, placing her hand over her stomach.

"I'm going to walk over to the river and check on some rabbit traps, up for a walk?"

Tina turns her head to her husband, "I would, but Mike's been worried about me going off into the woods, especially with the baby on the way."

Kurt follows Tina's view over at Mike gathering chips of wood into a pile, he thinks about trying to persuade her, but on second thought thinks it is probably best for her to stay home. "Okay then, I'll be back if I get more than one catch."

"Be safe now Kurt..." Tina scrunches her eyebrows in concern.

Stepping off from the stairs, Kurt waves goodbye and turns back onto the road. He doesn't bother Mercedes to come along, he's already asked her twice this week. He'll just make it quick. He'll be there, fifty minutes tops.

He reaches the edge of a thick brush with his free hand. _ I've known this path my entire life, _he thinks. _I'll be safe. _

Pushing the large leaves of a tree beside him, he steps into the dense forest. There's a path riddled in muddy footprints beneath both young and old trees. Bushes and weeds promise to invade should the path be abandoned.

Kurt feels a bit of reassurance when he hears voices further along the path, whose accompanying faces are not yet clear beyond the fork in the road divided by an oak tree. Company is welcome in these woods - of decent people anyways. Most of the citizens got their water and food from the river on the other side of town, but Kurt liked to avoid those parts, where the water was spoiled by naked children taking bathes. Not to mention Karofsky.

He ducks his head and passes beneath a few branches, choosing to turn right and rushing to keep a close distance. He doesn't want to scare them by breaking into a run, but he does walk at a quick pace. As he approaches, their figures become defined, a man and a woman, common folk by the look of their plain brown garb.

They're both unaware of their follower, engrossed in conversation. The man is waving his arms in wide motions, probably telling a story. Kurt notices a black band tied on his forearm. He says something while sweeping away a few strands of his brown cropped hair that dropped in front of his face. The woman laughs heartily.

It's dangerous to be caught unaware in a forest.

Not wanting to catch them by surprise he purposely presses his foot over a lone stick in his path. The crunching sound serves it's purpose as the woman snaps her head towards the perpetrator. When her blue eyes catch Kurt's, there's an obvious sense of relief - Kurt's glad he doesn't inspire fear.

The man is a little slower, distracted by the woman's face, he only turns when he sees her look. He stiffens once he notices Kurt's presence, his nostrils flair. Once his scent is registered the man loosens a bit, instead simply inclining his head. They both stop for a moment, the woman gives a light wave and grabs the man by the hand to usher him onward.

The walk to the river isn't too long, fifty minutes to an hour perhaps, but the obstacles make it tiresome. Every now and then there's a small hill that can't be passed without a considerable amount of walking and so he's forced to climb sometimes steep slopes. He grips the strong necks of trees for security and avoids any rocks that could possibly be loose.

He knows he's close after the third climb and when he passes a group of hickory trees. The largest of the bunch has the old scar of a slash.

The couple in front of him eventually stop and seat themselves on a dead trunk half taken by moss. Kurt hoped they were heading for the river too, but it looks like they just wanted some privacy. He passes them reluctantly and into a silence momentarily interrupted by a few nightingale tweets.

Fifteen minutes later he hears the trickle of water running down stream. The vegetation cuts off quickly over a small ledge, below water flows. Following the nicks on various trees, Kurt lifts specific ferns to inspect his traps. He finds one still intact, one broken with no catch, but outrageously he finds three worked - his best outcome yet. He happily removes the rope around his waist and ties the three rabbits together by their feet, then ties the rope back around himself. They were going to have a decent meal tonight _and _some coin. Kurt smirks in satisfaction, leaning into the river and dunking his bucket to collect water, filling it to the brim.

He turns swiftly towards home then, wasting no time. He promised he'd get back before dark.

Getting down with the bucket full of water is always difficult, but he manages it with a few small splashes. He stops for a moment when he notices the log that the couple sat on is empty, but dares not to linger. It's odd that he didn't cross paths with them, why would they walk for a half an hour only to return in twenty minutes? Kurt doesn't feel comfortable about that, he picks up his pace now.

He passes the hickory trees again and shuffles down a hill. He stops only to make sure he's on track where sometimes the muddy path disappears, leaving minimum direction when a tree wasn't near to be marked.

It's hard to see the sky beneath the tree canopies in most areas, but he can tell the sun is beginning to fall by the way the shadows changed. Kurt tries to take a good look through the leaves above him for a while, but he still can't really tell where the sun is exactly. When he drops his head back down he notices bunches of purple and blue on a tree - blueberries. He's excited at his discovery, but that quickly turns sour when he realizes he must've gone the wrong way, he's never spotted a blueberry tree in these woods before. He glances around checking for his misstep, he looks to the ground and is happy to see he made clear footprints, he'd just track it back. He gathers as much blueberries as his pockets can hold for the moment, he'd come back later with a bag.

To mark his direction he scratches the trees until he reaches a familiar point. This time he takes care to pay attention to the trail. There's a rush of wind that precedes a cool breeze that tickles Kurt's skin. He shakes off his sudden desire to shift. _It's not safe to do that - someone might see. They'll find out. _Kurt reasons.

_In the middle of a forest? With no one around? _Kurt frowns. His eyes flickering over the forest as if some witness might emerge from the bushes.

He feels a trickle down his body that starts to make his flesh itch with need. _Smell._ _Scratch. Mark._ But Kurt would be damned if he was going to let his need to sniff under rocks and piss on a tree let him leave behind his harvest of the day.

He pushes his urges down, but begins to notice his sense of smell is starting to heighten. At least he'll be able to follow a scent to get back home easily. As he moves along he gets more and more overwhelmed by the sheer amount of aromas - dead pine leaves, dirt, rocks, bark, feathers, something swampy, and fur.

_Fur? _

Kurt halts and sniffs the air again. _A Deer? No... a deer would be less musky, less fur. Something shaggy, maybe a bear._ It crossed the path here. He looks down and sees a sloppy indention of mud and dirt. It's too round of a hill to be a bear, but large enough. A wolf then. A _big _wolf.

Kurt doesn't let the clues process, he doesn't want to especially when the scent is so fresh. At the most fifteen minutes old. He breaks into a light jog. _Just until I lose the scent. _He tells himself.

But it doesn't work, in fact the scent is even stronger as he goes down. But he can't go back now when the sun's so close to disappearing.

_It was here about five minutes._ Kurt registers. He swings his head around the forest looking for any movement and sees a bush rustle in the distance. He freezes, watching the leaves closely. When he looks back to the path he sees it.

A scrawny brown wolf taking hard breathes. It's snout was too large to be ordinary and paws too wide, the body too enormous.

He had no choice then, by the look of it's stance - poised to pounce on prey.

It took no effort, just less restraint and he was free. White tufts of fur crawled up his arms and his bones crackled causing immense pain. His clothes stood no chance, clothes and rope torn, shredded into the grass, blueberries rolling until he finally stood on four instead of two.

Somewhere in his subconscious, he mourned for his things, but right now there was competition. The wolf was galloping towards him in a storm of large strides and growling.

_Omega._

This would be easy then, Kurt deduced.

He bared his teeth, snarling in response, jumping to meet his foe. They tangle in a battle of sharp bites and clawing. Rolling over rocks painfully, through the thick grass, over sticks until eventually Kurt finds himself on top. He sends a good bite into the neck of the brown wolf, earning a yelp of pain.

The wolf continues to struggle against him until Kurt sinks his teeth in again. He knows he earns submission when the wolf stills, tucking it's tail between it's legs.

Kurt releases the werewolf's jaw, finding footing on his four paws, and letting the brown werewolf scramble back up. Kurt's snapping and growling finally drives it off. He wonders in circles until he's sure he's safe and melts back into his human form. Naked.

He walks back to his belongings, finding his bucket of water spilt, blue berries scattered and squashed, but rabbits in good condition. He'd been forced to sneak back home naked before, so at least he knew a decent route, as long as the stable boys weren't working.

He grabs his empty bucket then, cold in the quickly diminishing light. He trails at the edge of the forest and runs into the side of the few buildings, looking around corners.

He makes it back home, glad to find his clothes already dried. Once dressed he returns inside to find the fire dead and his father snoring. He freshens the damp cloth, causing his father to stir.

He can't deliver a rabbit to Tina and Mike today, it's too late considering he still has to sell a rabbit fresh to the butcher and cook dinner. He leaves two at home and takes one. After a bit of haggling he manages to earn three bronze chips. A poor price in his opinion, but admittedly it was the small rabbit of the bunch. He would've made at least three more had he brought some blueberries. He wonders if it's worth going back into the forest to gather them tomorrow.

Kurt skins the other two rabbits, salting one to keep it fresh and searing the other on a skillet to mix into a hearty stew with turnips and carrots. He even has some leftover stale bread that isn't half bad if you soak it in the soup.

It's the best meal they'd had in awhile, but Kurt doesn't think Burt can even tell the difference. He's so weak Kurt has to hold him up while spoon feeding him. Some of the food dribbles past his lips, so Kurt dabs it with a cloth. All Burt can do is mumble a strained "Thank you." before collapsing back onto his bed and drifting back to sleep. It breaks Kurt heart to see his strong father reduced to this. There isn't much he can do now. He'd already collected fifteen bronze chips for help, only to have the town's healer declare his father wasn't going to make it and all he could do was make him drink ale to ease his passing.

That might work if he could afford to buy ale.

The thought reminds Kurt of the bronze chips in his pocket. Behind the firepit Kurt grabs a tin can, dropping the three coins. Seventeen chips - three more to go. _ And all for those pompous assholes and none for us_, Kurt thinks bitterly.

Every thirty days the town guards went door to door to collect. A man of about thirty years named Martin always made the rounds on their small road. Kurt could never forget his sleazy smirk, rotten teeth, and silver tooth. He took an odd pleasure in bleeding the Hummels dry and had a special hatred reserved for Kurt, which he took no effort in hiding.

Kurt would have to pay in two days or risk being kicked out of their dank shelter. Dank it was, but a roof is a roof when the nights are cold and the rains are hard, any beggar on the street would say.

That resolved Kurt's plans for tomorrow. He'd return to the woods.

Rekindling the fire for the cold night, Kurt settles down on his stiff mat. He covers himself in a ratty linen blanket and is off to sleep.

He dreams of the werewolf in the forest, his father when he was well, and an unfamiliar boy.

Before Kurt is even properly awake there is pounding on his door. He answeres it, with disheveled hair and wrinkled clothes, finding the guard Martin dressed in boiled leather, covered by white cotton adorning the a black paw print.

"Taxes are due tomorrow." Kurt complaines through the crack in the door, he didn't want them to assume they were welcome to walk in.

Martin grins, silver tooth shining, "Ay', it's due tomorrow. This is for something else." he looks to the other two men, and speaks up when they nod. "Step out boy."

After opening the door fully, Kurt cautiously steps down. Kurt now recognizes the two accompanying guards aren't ordinary town's guardsmen. They wear decorated steel armor with the same wolf print, but in gold. A bronze crescent of a moon holds their belts together and their faces are concealed with flat-topped great helms. _Elite Guardsmen. _

Martin steps forward to face Kurt, "Blue eyes, brown hair," he points out, "tall, lanky, pale, and a pointy nose."

Kurt crinkles his nose self-consciously.

"Could be." One of the Elite guards speaks, voice deepened by the helmet, but still recognizably aged.

Martin grips Kurt by the arm - as if he'd risk running off with two obviously seasoned _knights _looming over him, hands on the pommel of their swords. "You'll be coming with us." he mutters.

"For what?" Kurt questions on instinct. Though it came to him suddenly: the wolf in the woods - the omega. Kurt assumes the worse: she probably reported him walking around without a black band, but more importantly told them the color of his wolf's coat... pure white - A trait revered by people of noble birth. He heard what the common folk said: pure brown was one in fifty, pure grey: one in a hundred, pure black: one in a thousand, and white? Only thrice in history. And one of them died at the age of three.

A person with an albino coat was said to be 'touched by Odon' the first skinwalker known to Kurt's people, but Kurt found that ridiculous. Everyone knew Odon's wolf was stark black, it was his wife Thea who had a coat as white as snow. 'Touched by Thea' Kurt prefered.

When Kurt first shifted at the young age of five, he'd been so ecstatic. The Hummels hadn't had a shifter since his great great grandpa Leo. That excitement soon ended when he saw his father's horrified expression and got dragged inside before any of the neighbor's caught sight of him.

"They'll take you away from me if they see the white." Burt huffed after the exertion of plowing through the snow with Kurt in his arms. "If they take in the black coats for the noble families to choose, what do you think they'll do to a _white_ coat? I won't risk it. We can't have you changing, you hear me? They'll train you like a dog and they'll use you to breed heirs. I've seen them." Burt cried.

Kurt only nodded, only for his father's approval. It was later on that he really saw nobles for himself. Noble people were seldom seen among the western parts of Quinton. Once or twice a year they'd come down on their elaborately decorated wagons and groomed purebred stallions to execute some poor 'traitor' in the name of the ever absent Elite. And they were beautiful. Fair of skin, clean, and fit with well tailored outfits made from exotic materials like silk. They had no reason to shift, but it was still clear to Kurt who the 'taken' were. They stood silent and meek at their husband's sides or wife's side. Ever loyal and obedient.

_Do I want that? _Kurt had thought. _Do I want to live the life of a pampered slave? _And when times got harder, especially these past four months, that question haunted him again and again.

_Do I want that?_

These days when he went a day or two without food or when the guards made him resort to pulling out his few crops to pay the taxes the answer leaned more to yes then no. _Maybe I'll get that now. Maybe I'll be a pampered slave. _Kurt sulked.

"You were in the woods yesterday. I've got two witnesses who say so. You might as well confess it now." Martin spat a wad of saliva onto the dirt road.

Kurt frowned skirting around his special condition, "I did nothing illegal, I only defended myself."

"Not according to Casey Foster. You attacked her unawares, while she was minding her own business. " Said the Elite guard with the low voice.

"I was minding_ my _own business and she bared her teeth at _me._" Kurt seethed, relieved the woman didn't mention anything about his coat. Maybe she was too distracted...

"Who are we going to believe? A low scum like you or an Elite? Your argument is invalid."

_Elite!? _

_The Smythes, The Ephraims, The Andersons, and _The Fosters._ Casey Foster must be the daughter of Aaron. _He injured the daughter of Aaron - an Elite.

The ever present question reverberated: _Do I want that?_

There was no question now, it was _yes._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Weirdly enough, I thought this story was a total flop when I got_ no_ reviews initially and so I didn't look at my account for weeks and left the second chapter unfinished. Then when I came on to transfer a story to tumblr when I noticed I got twelve reviews, a great amount for me! So, I wrapped up the second chapter for you guys. I'm sorry for the wait... and honestly, seeing the next chapter isn't partially written this time, it might take a couple of weeks to make time for it. Thank you for the reviews folks!

**Chapter 2**

Blaine

* * *

"Lytton." Blaine droned, slouching onto his elbow and nudging the leg of his table with his foot.

"Lytton —" the elderly man let the name hang — urging Blaine to complete it.

Blaine tapped his desk with the point of his feather pen, "Lytton Foster the second, Lytton the Sturdy, Lord of Wasir Valley, decedent of Odon, King of too many things."

"Do you mock my teachings?" the man intoned, the white whiskers of his mustache curling down with his expression.

Godfrey was a short and stocky man, but the crows feet at the corner of his eyes and the tremor in his fingers tell the truth of his age. He snatches the feather from Blaine's fingers, "These are your ancestors we are learning about, you might do with some respect!"

"Learning about dead people isn't going to help me. Can't I go see Curtis already? I'm suppose to do bow training today."

Godfrey wraps his hand around Blaine's wrist in urgency, "But that's just it Blaine. It will help you. Haven't you noticed that Aaron Foster doesn't hold the title of Lord of Wasir Valley? That's because Lytton Foster made the mistake of investing in false hopes. He let a complete foreigner with a silk tongue persuade him to invest in a gold mine. If Lytton had heeded to his counselor's words and investigated this mine further, he would've found it was desolate. Instead he invested thousands of gold chips into a worthless wasteland. He could only return to his high form of living by selling most of his property to the other Elite families. That's why the Andersons own a third of Wasir Valley now and why Lytton the Sturdy is now known as Lytton the Fooled."

Blaine mocked a yawn, "Don't worry. Should I acquire any morsel of the Anderson fortune by the good _grace_ of my if my elder brother, I won't be as gullible as the Fosters."

Godfrey's lips tightened, "Hush now. You shouldn't speak of your relatives in such a manner."

"You know Jeff is a dear friend of mine Godfrey, I'm just bored is all."

"Jefferson." Godfrey corrects.

Blaine rolls his eyes, "He is my friend and I call him_ Jeff_."

"It's improper to throw around these cut-off names."

"If I find myself in a formal setting, I'll be sure to use the _proper_ name Godfrey." Blaine assures, rising from his chair. "Now can I take my leave?"

"You may, but be back tomorrow,_ earlier_ than you arrived today." Godfrey wraps his fingers around the rail of Blaine's chair to help himself rise.

Blaine opens the large wooden entrance to his room to walk down a flight of stone stairs. His guard Donston follows loudly on his heels, metal plates clanking with every step, Blaine's already immune to the nuisance.

Below the stairs the smell of baking bread and roasting quail waft through the air. Blaine hears Rueford shouting at his apprentice cook, "This garlic is too chunky, I said mince not chop!" some muttering on the other end then his reply, "Well, someone's bound to choke on it and I won't be the one taking a whipping for that!"

Blaine enters the kitchen. Rueford is sitting on the wooden countertop, taking a swig of ale from a trencher while keeping an eye on the poor young lad sweating over a cutting board.

"Blaine!" Rueford smiles, ruffling Blaine's hair affectionately once he approaches, "Where are you off to boy?"

"The yard. Curtis should be waiting." Blaine grabs an apple from a basket on the counter, trying to move his dark curls back into place with his other hand, there was no point though, it'd always be unruly unless he smeared it with grease.

"I'm making your favorite tonight for the main entree — braised venison." Rueford reveals, his smile straightens when he sees the somber face of Blaine's guard.

"Looking forward to it." Blaine takes a bite of his apple, walking off towards the main hall then into the light of the morning.

Out in the yard he finds his combat master Curtis holding two saddled stallions with reins and two longbows tucked under his arms.

Curtis is a lean man of thirty. Younger than other high knights, but well-experienced. If you didn't believe it — he had the marks to prove it. A hideous scar across his forearm from an arrow, a slanted one across his back from an axe that grazed him, and among other healed wounds, a pale left eye from a close and personal encounter. Partial blindness might hinder any other man, but not Curtis, if anything, it made him even more battle-crazed.

Never one to linger, Curtis hands Blaine his wooden bow and quiver, and mounts his own horse. Donston, Blaines guard, is forced to walk to the stables and join up with them at a later time.

Blaine follows Curtis in silence, petting the mane of his horse to calm him a bit before trotting off. They gallop past the gardens and to the front gate, to be waved through by the two guards fully suited in armor and past the fountains at the extravagant entrance. Curtis leads him into an open field to the left of the Andersons' Castle. After a good amount of distance Blaine spots the two targets Curtis had previously set up.

Blaine tugs on his reins to slow his horse down.

While steering his horse into a half circle with his left hand, Curtis manages to pull an arrow out of his quiver. In a span of a few seconds, he drops his reins, notches his arrow, and releases it at the target.

It's not a bullseye, but stunningly close.

"Notch your bow." Curtis commands, grabbing another arrow and somehow managing to stay balanced on the back of the moving animal.

Fooled by the look of ease Curtis displayed, Blaine lets go of his reins to grab the neck of one of his own arrows. He struggles to straighten the arrow against the string with the horse's unsteady balance and nearly falls off of stallion when it makes an unguided sharp turn.

"You fail to take up proper stance, yet you've been letting arrows loose since you were weaned off your mother's milk. " Curtis teases.

Blaine grimaces, grabbing his reins once again and holding the bow and arrow in the other, "I do not know the proper stance when mounted."

"You're thinking too much, it is just unbalanced ground on which you sit. The only difference I would think is being quick to grab your reins before you tumble off."

"It is surely not that easy."

"But it is."

It takes Curtis four hours of drills to finally relent, closing their practice session with discontent. Blaine can now hit a target on a regular basis, but still misses occasionally — not to the satisfaction of his teacher.

Blaine only remembers Donston's absence when he finally sees him approaching at a leisurely pace to relay a message, "Your father wishes for your presence at the Foster's household for supper tonight. Milly will prepare water for a bath and dress your accordingly."

This was surely an unexpected change of schedule, dinner was already made for the Andersons and it was even Blaine's favorite. _A pity._ Blaine thought, _Rueford seemed so proud of tonight's meal. What could be so important?_ His father, Richard Anderson, rarely strayed beyond the comforts of his own servants, preferring to thrive apart from his distant relatives.

Shrugging off the question, Blaine happily obliges to leaving Curtis' now sour mood. He'd have to make up for his "poor" performance today by hitting all his targets next time. That'd only be possible if he practiced on his own time before their next meetup.

After taking his hot bath, Milly, his servant, forces him into uncomfortable formal attire. First, a white dress shirt covered with a burgundy velvet doublet, then some night black breeches. Milly insistes he wear at least one piece of jewelry, so he complies with his elite sigil ring, a golden band studded with chips of diamonds, meant to be stars surrounding the full moon at the center.

Milly gives up trying to brush Blaine's dark hair into something that doesn't look unruly, leaving the curly locks to their nature. He's running late by the time that finishes and misses the family's carriage, he doesn't mind though, being cooped up in a small box and under his father's constant scrutiny was tiresome.

Blaine mounts his personal mare Esner for the short trip. He takes his time trotting towards the Foster's foyer, Donston following in his shadow. All of the Elite families were enclosed by a formidable wall with guards on it's perimeters. Despite being enclosed, this area dubbed Odon's Lands, was a good size. It was about a two hundred and fifty acres, leaving a good portion of land for the four families to stomp on, but it was still known that the Elite owned land across Quinton exceeding two thousand acres.

After about a twenty minute ride the mansion comes into view once he passes the trees at the front. There's the Foster's stable boy Puck to greet him and take his horse in and one of their maids to lead him into the dining room to the feast that already started.

Conversation is being passed around as servants place dishes next to primly organized eating utensils. Blaine guesses that this is the second course, being soup — a cream based soup drizzled with coarsely cut cheddar, served in pewter bowls.

Donston joins the other Foster and Anderson guards lined up respectfully against the wall, watching in silence.

Nobody pays much mind to Blaine's late entrance when he enters, except Jeff's pat on the back after he takes his seat on the table. The servants quickly accommodate him with a course too, pouring him a cup of white wine.

Blaine quickly notes that this isn't a fully fledged dinner, only Aaron Foster, Jeff, and his father. He hones in on the topic going on between the head of the house, Aaron, and his father.

"- was out in the woods in broad daylight. Unsurprisingly, some _commoner_ comes along, sees something pretty, and thinks he can just take it — take my daughter." Aaron holds his fork and knife stiffly, his face is a picture of controlled anger framed with close-cut white hair and a trimmed beard.

"And pray tell what Casey, a twelve year old girl, was doing out in the middle of a forest, unsupervised?" Mr. Anderson questions skeptically.

One of the few admirable traits Blaine found in his father was his unfailing keen sense of smelling a twisted story — although that has worked against Blaine one time or another.

Aaron waves off Mr. Anderson's words, "Regardless of whether or not my daughter was dragging a dead body or just taking a leisurely stroll, no filthy boy has a right to lay a finger against an Elite. _I'm having that bastard hung._"

Mr. Anderson takes a sip of his wine before accepting the outcome, "If it must be done."

"It must." Aaron insists.

"Casey got attacked by werewolf yesterday." Jeff puts in for Blaine quietly, so as not not disturb their fathers.

Blaine knows Casey had a habit of getting into trouble and didn't doubt that the poor boy now on death-row was innocent. Blaine doesn't bother replying, opting to keep his unwelcomed opinion out of it.

Jeff senses Blaine's thought and continues after sweeping away a piece of his blonde hair out of his face, "I told my dad that Casey probably provoked him, but he won't have it, not when Casey has a scratch across her face for everyone to see."

Blaine nods, unfazed at Aaron Foster's unyielding pride. If there was anything to salvage from the Fosters it was definitely Jeff's good-nature.

When the cream soup is finishes, the servants round the table to collect the dishes and offer the next course — grilled duck with lemon dressing and thinly sliced blanched almonds. Thick carvings of sourdough bread were also laid in personal dishes beside each meal.

Aaron refuses to take his plate saying, "Bring me the next course, I hate duck." His loyal servant scatteres away quickly to the given order, returning with roasted pork smothered in sweet and tangy red sauce.

"Where's Cooper today?" Aaron inquires, to end the awkward silence that befell the room.

"He went abroad last week. We've been discussing it for awhile now." Mr. Anderson cuts a square out of his duck, "I told him a formidable ruler should be well-rounded and a worldly individual and since he is my eldest it only makes sense that he become that."

"Rightly so! I've told Jeff the same thing." Aaron takes this opportunity to eye Jeff in expectancy before turning to Blaine, "And what about you Blaine? Are you planning to travel abroad?"

Mr. Anderson sends Blaine a cold look, daring Blaine to make a foolish response.

"Yes, in two years time after Curtis and Godfrey approve." to which Blaine really means, when my _father_ approves.

Mr. Anderson cuts in before Blaine can speak more, "We know all Elites must exemplify the highest standard whether or not they are destined to rule."

Blaine nearly snorts at his father's failed attempt to make him not feel alienated, but snuffs it out with a bite of his meal.

Mr. Anderson might've continued, but a servant hiking up her dress, so as not to trip , rushed through the entrance successfully diverting his attention.

She immediately stops next to Mr. Foster leaning forward to whisper something in his ear.

"Here? Now?" Mr. Foster nearly jumps from his seat, before coming to his senses and realizing he still has guests.

"I'm sorry Richard," Mr. Foster looks to Mr. Anderson, "It's that common boy, the guards have brought him up to the gate."

"Well now, that's no reason to apologize." Mr. Anderson smiles slyly, "We can still have our dinner, I'm curious about this perpetrator as well, let us have a look."

Mr. Foster looks perplexed momentarily, "I'm not sure if it's appropriate to bring a criminal into the perimeters of our home."

"Oh, come on Aaron, what are you afraid of? We have guards." Mr. Anderson teases.

"Very well," Aaron directs the breathless messenger, "tell them to bring the boy in."


	3. Chapter 3

******Chapter 3**

Kurt

* * *

Scraping his boots on the floor of the mansion didn't help to slow down this moment, instead it just created an awkward squeaking sound against the decorated flooring. Kurt hadn't stepped on tiled floors since he visited the temple at the center of town. Both instances weren't of good circumstances.

Everything was happening too fast. The wolf he fought in the woods. The men at his door. Being accused and arrested. Pleading and being unheard.

Kurt had plead alright. He had tried to tell them, but whenever he tried they just laughed at him, amused by his desperation and when he'd offer to show them, they threatened his life.

Kurt felt a hand pressed on his shoulder shoving him forward, "Move along now boy. No need to make his grace wait any longer than he has to."

Kurt thought his tax collector's presence to be unnecessary, he was already being practically dragged along by two guards. The weasel was probably seizing the opportunity to catch a glimpse of an Elite no doubt. He sighed in resentment, watching the hallway grow to a close. A lady with red hair and blue uniform, opened the door to reveal a separate room.

"Thanks Layla." One of Kurt's captors expressed to the woman through his iron helm, pulling Kurt through.

It was a lot to take in, the blue and yellow tapestries decorating the wall, the entire set of Elite armored men waiting on command against it. The large windows where large pieces of beige fabric draped from.

At the center, a grand piece of beautifully fashioned oak held extravagant plates and utensils. And food and drinks — _lots _of food and drinks, neatly cut and portioned on dishes, with _more _side dishes, and entire jugs of different wines. Even a centerpiece with an array of fruits: kiwis, grapes, oranges, apples, and dates laid within the whim of the table's guests.

Kurt was so entranced by the idea of someone possessing so much food that he forgot for a split second why he was here. He focused on the table's occupants. Seated, were two men and two boys.

Throughout most of his life, Kurt always wondered what an Elite would look like and the more he'd pondered about it the more supernatural his inner-descriptions of them turned out to be. At one point Kurt even supposed they might hold an ethereal countenance and abnormal abilities — that they weren't like average werewolves. But these men sorely fell short of his expectations. They were certainly noble as far as the rich material of their clothing and the way they held themselves with a pompous attitude that could be sniffed out yards away.

The man who seemed to be the oldest of them, with greying hair and a hand full of gold and silver rings, stood to meet them. Holding a firm expression, that Kurt could see withheld disgust.

"_This _is him?" the man's eyes flashed with disbelief.

"Ay' he confessed it." Martin pitched in, pretending to be solemn about it.

Kurt cut in, "I _did not _confess. I just said I was defending myself!"

A smack with of a gauntlet to his temple accompanied clipped, "Shut it!"

"Defending yourself? Against my twelve year old daughter?" the assumed Elite looked to Kurt, then turning his head to take in the grimey tax collector.

Not daring to speak again, Kurt hung his head low.

Seeing himself being observed Martin happily introduced himself, "I'm Martin, tax collector and town guard. I lead your men to this criminal sir."

"We are grateful." the man spoke, his tone of voice completely contradicting his statement, going on to say, "I am Aaron Foster."

A suppressed scuffle of a chair directed Kurt's attention back to the table to take in the other figures. The scrawny blonde boy and stout mature man looked on curiously, but only one looked uncomfortable — a boy with curly black hair and a set of hazel eyes.

"Layla," Aaron called, "Bring my daughter."

Barely a minute passed, before a little girl practically bounced into the room. Kurt had never seen the werewolf in human form, but it made him sorely humiliated that the tumbling match he'd had in the woods had been against this peppy twelve year old. She smirked when she caught sight of Kurt with his hands bounded behind his back.

"This is him." Casey confirmed once taking a position in front of her father, batting her eyelashes to poorly execute innocence.

"And you're not going to tell them that you attacked me?" Kurt's voice crackes in disbelief.

Casey pretended to be hurt by the question, "I didn't Daddy. I swear it on Odon's name. It was him who attacked me!"

"We don't need convincing Casey." Aaron pressed his hand onto his daughter's shoulder, "We know who the culprit has been all along."

Aaron stares blankly at the bound man for a long pause, Kurt swears for a brief few seconds he sees pity appear in the man's eyes before he hears him question, "What do you want done with him Casey?"

Casey seems pleased by the question, which soons contorts to deep thought, "What can be done?"

"Do you truly not know, has Godfrey been teaching you for naught?"

"Gallows." Casey rushes, as if she was afraid her father would take away the chance of ending someone's life.

Kurt's legs nearly give out at the word.

"It will be done." Aaron nods, "Go back to your room now."

Before Casey can exit, Kurt cuts in, "This is ridiculous! There is nothing to prove your daughters words! I am innocent!"

"Let Odon hear your claims on the gallows." Aaron solemnly condemnes. "Take him out please." Aaron commands, no longer patient.

Kurt feels his forearms being gripped again, but continues to speak, "Thea has given me her white coat." Refusing to move his feet, the guards began to drag him forward to the exit, "I'm only asking you to let me show you!" Kurt begs.

Aaron chooses to ignore the comment and the table's guests looked onward, not saying a word.

His heart drops. If he did nothing now he would never have the opportunity to prove his words. He'd be taken down to Quinton to be hung by nobles in public and his father would be left to fend for himself.

If his life was inevitably for forfeit later on, he might as well risk it now. So, he let it loose... his wolf — breaking the shackles off his hands and into a mess of white fur, knocking back the two surprised guards.

He turns, seeing through his new crystal clear eyesight the shocked expression of Aaron Foster accompanied by simultaneous gasps.

Despite Kurt's efforts — keeping his tail low and head down in a submissive stance. In the next second the entire row of guards who were warily lined against the wall sprout into menancing grey werewolves.

A short struggle ensues, there is no match. These wolves were no where near the level of Casey Foster and soon Kurt's wolf was pinned to the floor of the mansion, whimpering from the horde of attackers. Teeth and claws scraped against his beautiful white coat and soon deep red began to soak into the blank color.

"_Fools!_ _Off! Off of him!" _Aaron rushed forward to protect his newly discovered treasure, "_Stand down!" _

The circle of wolves separated from the now limp wolf who was now bleeding profusely and breathing shallowly by the short onslaught.

It's an incomprehensible blur when he wakes the first time, but he makes out the figure of an elderly lady and can feel the pain when her deft fingers clean his wounds and sew the torn flesh on his arms and legs. The pain becomes nearly bearable after the old woman gives him an odd concoction of green leaves soaked in root juice to chew on, but he has an even more difficult time staying awake.

Even though most of the day he's either in a delirious state or asleep, he knows he always has visitors. Sets of families at his bedside, always disturbing his rest with conversations that seem to stretch on for hours, he recalls a short snippet —

"_But for whom?"_

"_For my son of course."_

He submits once again to the dream realm. He sees his father there, weak next to the fireplace filled with a pile of cold ashes.

Kurt wakes again and as weak as he is, he forces himself to rise into a sitting position. He observes the bandages that wrap parts of his legs, before carefully getting on his two feet. A spike of pain shoots into his thigh, he lets out a short yelp of pain before clenching his jaw tight.

At an achingly slow pace he shuffles forward, losing balance after a particularly painful step and stumbles forward, blindly reaching out to catch his fall. He gasps in surprise when he finds himself gripping onto the harsh cold of metal — jail bars. Pulling himself into a more stable position, he blinks in disbelief at bars covering his room's window.

Peering outside, Kurt sees that his room is far from the ground and the adjacent wall is enormous and made of stone. It isn't the same structure he remembers from the Foster's castle though, this building had bricks with a lighter tint and a lot less statue carvings of wolves decorating the frames of windows.

He hears a click and when he turns back around, a woman is standing silently at the door with wide eyes of surprise, before Kurt can respond she steps out of the room and slams the door shut. A few minutes later a different woman arrives, flanked by a guard with the same steel armor and dyed crescent moon.

"It is good to see you awake Mr. Hummel." the aged woman spoke as if they were old friends, "I'm Helene, the midwife who has been tending to your wounds these past weeks."

"_Weeks?_" Kurt croaked.

"Take a seat Mr. Hummel. We don't want you to wear out." Helene ignores Kurt's worried tone, gently leading Kurt back to his mattress.

He sits back on the edge of his bed. The midwife hands him a cup of warm water which he gulps gratefully.

Helene seemingly analyzes Kurt's state before talking again, "Are you well enough to speak with Lord Anderson now?"

Kurt lookes around anxiously, "Is that where I am now? The Andersons'?"

_Imprisoned in an Elite's household? _

"Oh, forgive me. I forgot you were out cold by the time we reached the steps at the entrance! Yes, yes. This is the Anderson household. It is Lord Anderson who stated explicitly that he wanted to relay the reason why to you, so I will withhold that information for now."

Kurt nods his head in understanding. It didn't matter whether or not he was well enough, Kurt knew this conversation couldn't be stalled. His father could possibly be dead.

"I'd like to speak to him now."

"Wonderful." Helene tenderly touches his shoulder, "I'll call him up now... and if you need _anything_, let me know." with that, Helene leaves the room.

The guard remains, opening the door once three sharp knocks sounds.

Kurt recognizes the man with the greying hair from the Foster's home, he'd been sitting next to the blonde boy. Today he was wearing simple russet tunic, slightly a step down from the elaborate attire he'd first seen him in, but nonetheless better than any commoner's clothing.

"Ah." the man stopped short, his knowing eyes twinkling with something Kurt couldn't figure out, "I can't tell you how much_ joy_ it gives me to see you fully conscious."

Kurt didn't know how to respond to that, seeing as he'd never really met this man before.

"I am Lord Anderson, but you are welcome to call me Mr. Anderson and it is a pleasure to formally meet you Kurt." He holds out his hand as a greeting.

Kurt looks towards the window, checking to see if he'd imagined the bars — he's honestly confused about his situation. Why was this _Elite _treating him with dignity? Was he not a prisoner?

Mr. Anderson follows his gaze and drops his hand, opting to fold them in front of him, "You must be confused..."

"What is going to happen to me?" Kurt blinks.

"Straight to the point." Mr. Anderson smirkes, "An admirable trait." He takes a seat in the wooden chair at the corner of his room. After a beat of silence he begins, "Lord Foster has decided to withdraw your death sentence."

Taking in Kurt's unsurprised expression he continues on, "Although I'm afraid that you _are not_ free — Lord Foster and I have reached an agreement, since he is concerned for his daughter's safety, I took on your being as my responsibility. So, essentially you will be staying in my home for an unspecified amount of time."

Kurt hesitates to ask why he's being kept in a house instead of any other prison in Quinton, he is afraid to hear the answer he _knows _has become a reality for him.

"Why am I being kept in a house?"

"We had no choice. Your... _rarity_ is is undeniable. You must be familiar with the exchange of black coats?"

"Yes."

"Well, it is surely an honorable thing to attempt to keep a pure line throughout generations, but there are instances every now and then where a few are taken against their will. So, you see we cannot risk putting your life in the hands of criminals and ordinary guards. It would be detestable with all the people running around who wouldn't hesitate to kidnap you!"

_Is it really my life that worries you or is it my value while I am alive? _Kurt thinks,"Why not a noble house then? Why here?"

"Your existence is being kept a secret."

"Nobody knows I'm alive?"

"For safety reasons. We must take precautions."

"And What about my father? Can I not at least have a message sent, inquiring about his condition?" Kurt strains to keep his tone calm.

Mr. Anderson sighs, "I'm afraid not. You may be staying in my home Kurt, but you still have some restrictions as a prisoner."

Mr. Anderson leaves it at that, rising from his chair, "Get some sleep now. You'll be seeing my son bright and early tomorrow morning for tutoring."

"Tutoring?" Kurt feels like a parrot by now, repeating these incomprehensible sentences, "Why do I need tutoring?"

Richard Anderson does not answer this question


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Blaine

* * *

"What about Godfrey and Curtis?" Blaine asks his father.

Mr. Anderson sits on the magnificent centerpiece of his office, a brown leather tufted chair with engraved legs, "I won't risk revealing the albino's location. I've given them both temporary leave, we aren't telling anyone unless it's absolutely necessary." When he still sees Blaine's unsure eyes staring back at him he adds, "It's nothing too daunting Blaine, it's just expected that Kurt know the basics of reading, writing, and most importantly... omega _etiquette_ — so when he's betrothed he has appropriate behavior."

Blaine knows the implications of "etiquette", but chooses to focus on the casualness his father used referring to this rare boy's bonding, "Betrothed? He has agreed to being betrothed?"

"We don't need _his _agreement, he's our prisoner."

Perhaps it was stupid for Blaine to ask that question, knowing the general views of his father and all Elites really. As far as his father was concerned there were only two types of people: Elites and non-Elites. Both were subject to bending to his will.

Blaine could've gotten some slack though, the Elites haven't had a bonding ritual with an unwilling participant for at least a couple of centuries and have _never _married a common class citizen, but Blaine knows why this boy Kurt is an exception.

Besides the utter historical significance of Kurt's existence, Blaine could see other things that counted as alluring: the serene smoothness of the boy's pale skin — his striking blue eyes — or were they blue or green... or grey? He didn't really have much a chance to observe them, but he did notice the wolf's eyes appearing to be red. Adding to that Kurt's stunning human appearance, Blaine had no doubt that his father saw Kurt as a youth who was easy to manipulate. Molding Kurt to be a perfect puppet was probably part of his father's agenda. But why pick the son he detested the most to do that? Didn't he know Blaine had no interest in these psychological games his father was a champion of? Better yet, didn't he fear that Blaine wouldn't be up to par to teach the poor soul?

Or maybe — no.

Maybe Blaine was to be bonded to Kurt and that's why his father wanted him to start spending time with him. Richard Anderson wanted his son to learn _control, _or as his mother would say "dominance".

"Take a quill and paper from my office and go to him now, tell one of the guards to let you in, I've already told them you're coming."

Scrunching his eyebrows, Blaine rises from the seat in front of his father's desk. He grabs a paper in one of the cubby holes in his father's office and grabs a quill and some ink. Maybe he'd start with teaching the boy letters.

Blaine rose to the second floor, crossing a series of rooms. On his short walk, he wonders how he should handle Kurt and his relationship, but with so little information — or lack of past Elite experience, Blaine wasn't sure what was the appropriate way to speak to someone like Kurt.

Shortly after, Blaine finds himself across from his room. He'd known it as a guest room before the prisoner's arrival. It was noticeably smaller than his own room, but not as small as the servants' rooms, which were located in a hobble outside of the mansion.

"Hey Ben." Blaine nods to the old guard standing as security.

Benjamin opens the door for him and Blaine is followed inside.

He sees the boy near the window, sitting on a chair with one leg dangling down and loosely hugging the other. The boy doesn't seem to perk up at the presence of him, not even bothering to turn his neck to view the intruder.

Kurt moves a few strands of his brown hair, "Is it lunch?"

Stopping short from closing the distance between them, Blaine speaks, "That's in an hour."

The new voice immediately pikes Kurt's interest, he looks to the familiar boy at the doorway.

Blaine takes note of Kurt's green eyes.

Kurt's expression hardens with recognition, "You were at the Foster's."

"I'm Blaine Anderson."

That information seems to close off Kurt, he turns back to look out the window.

"What do you need?" Kurt asks, tracing the dust on the window's ledge.

Blaine walks closer, until he too is staring at the outdoors. He doesn't find anything particularly compelling, just another portion of the mansion and the courtyard down below and it was even obscured by the bars. This makes Kurt's indifference a bit insulting.

"To tutor you." Blaine answers, turning his attention to the room around him and dropping his parchment and ink onto a table.

"I respectfully decline."

_What an unusual response from an omega, _Blaine ponders.

Noticing Blaine's continuing presence, Kurt reiterates himself, "Thank you for offering... but no thank— "

"It's not an offer." Blaine's tone, suggests this is non debatable. He seats himself on the room's wooden desk and dips the tip of his feather pen in ink before beginning to write the alphabet in his elegant script, "Bring your seat over here."

Blaine hears silence for a few beats then the drag of a chair, he sees Kurt approach in his peripheral vision. After a few scribbles accompanied with silence, Blaine finishes with a lowercase z and Kurt is settled on a chair next to him.

"I've been ordered to be your teacher. Two hours, five days a week. The time of day may vary."

Kurt stares at the floor, inattentively.

Blaine frowns in annoyance, _I'll have to fix that behavior. _

"To my understanding, you have not attended any educational institution?"

Kurt nods absentmindedly.

Blaine can't say that he's surprised. He slides the paper he'd written on in front of Kurt, "Let's go over the alphabet then..."

Blaine runs over the basics of letters, their sounds, and exceptions. Kurt seems to have his mind elsewhere throughout the lesson, but does respond when appropriate.

One of the Anderson servants nervously call through the door that lunch has been prepared.

Grateful for the intrusion, Blaine closes the lesson with a small assignment, "I want you to copy my letters onto a separate piece of paper and try sounding them out for yourself. I'll look at it tomorrow. I'll be going downstairs now — I'll see you after you get ready."

"I am ready."

Blaine eyes the loose fitted clothing covering Kurt's lithe figure. Even with his outfit poorly fitted he managed to look enchanting. Blaine's gaze returns back to the boy's defined jaw, nearly blushing, "Come along."

The guard Ben follows closely as they descend to the dining room where Blaine finds his mother Pamela seated. Her blonde hair is propped up in a bun, secured by a delicate silver band. She wears simple green silk dress.

Mrs. Anderson rises to meet Kurt, kissing him on the cheek and gushing, "Oh, it's wonderful that you're joining us! I thought Richard would keep you locked up in that tiny room of yours!"

Kurt forces a poor smile as Blaine takes a seat opposite from Kurt's side of the table.

Once Blaine and Mrs. Anderson settle in, they're all served breakfast. Neither of them mentions why Richard Anderson is absent, which Kurt finds odd.

Their meal is a lot simpler than the meal Kurt had witnessed at the Foster's household, but nonetheless extravagant. Flakey pies filled with chicken and vegetables in creamy sauce were given and for a lighter meal tarts filled with sliced and splayed fruits along with wheels luxury cheeses. If you were a person of simple taste like Kurt: freshly baked bread was available.

While Blaine and Mrs. Anderson ate with moderate sound, utensils scraping against their dyed glass dishes, Kurt broke pieces off of his slice of bread, chewing it slowly in silence.

"So, Kurt," Mrs. Anderson began after taking a few bites of her meal, "How are you finding your accommodations?"

"Restraining." Kurt doesn't hesitate to answer.

Blaine stops cutting his piece of pie.

"Oh." Mrs. Anderson looks taken aback.

She shifts uncomfortably, "Is there anything we can do for you?"

Kurt puts down his piece of bread, eyes flickering to the guards standing near a potted plant at the edge of the room, "Is it possible for me to send a letter to someone?"

The odd thing was, Blaine had never thought about Kurt's ties to the outside world; until this moment, Blaine just considered him a lone person.

"My father — he's not well and I'm not sure if he's able to get help or if anyone has noticed my absence."

A long stretch of silence fills the table and Mrs. Anderson's focus on Kurt turns to the vase of potted daisies in front of him, she picks up her fork and knife again and continues eating.

Blaine sees the boy's eyes beginning to water up.

An omega could not simply disobey his or her counterpart's instructions. Blaine knew his father had already gone over the rules with his mother as a precaution regarding Kurt.

"I don't think that's the best idea Kurt. We can't jeopardize your safety." Blaine takes a sip from his goblet of water. He didn't want to sit in the unsettling silence his mother created.

" —but nobody would have to know it's from me. In fact it doesn't need to come from me. Anybody could send a letter to make sure my father is taken care of."

The dominant instinct in Blaine, doesn't appreciate Kurt's insistence. He puts down his utensils and wipes his hands on his napkin, "Tell me Kurt. When a criminal receives a death sentence, does Quinton look out for the welfare of that person's family?"

Blaine regrets using the word criminal, he knows it's harsh considering the likelihood Kurt is innocent.

Kurt opens his mouth to answer, then shuts it.

"There are only three prisons in Quinton. We can't risk people searching for you if they think you're alive. It is better this way — if people assume you are not living. "

Tina's and Mercedes' faces surface in Kurt's mind. He knows they will look for him, that they will not accept that he is dead unless they see his body with their own eyes,"They'll search for me regardless of whether or not a letter is sent out."

Blaine clenches on his fork tighter and looks straight into Kurt's eyes, "We're not sending out a letter."

Instead of dropping his head in a meek manner, to Blaine's dismay Kurt looks defiant, grabbing his cloth and wiping off the non-visible crumbs from his stunning lips. He drops the his napkin onto the table and rises from his seat.

The guard, Benjamin reaches Kurt before he even takes a step away from his chair, grabbing his arm. Ben turns to Blaine for direction.

Blaine is tempted to command Kurt to stay at the table and finish breakfast, but that would be ridiculous and awkward, "You may escort Mr. Hummel back to his room."

Benjamin bows curtly and leads Kurt out of the dining room.

Blaine and his mother finish breakfast without a word exchanged.

Blaine spends the rest of his day trotting on his family's acres on his stallion and practicing Curtis's drills that he was given at his last training session, but his mind is elsewhere. He keeps thinking about the prisoner — Kurt and his expression at the dining table.

Maybe he could do something for him.

Blaine dreams he's in his wolf form that night, seeing his own black paws shuffle through snow. Down a large slope he sees crimson red glistening in snow. Only when he's a few feet away, he notices it's blood seeping from a wolf. The breathing form's fur is startlingly close in color to the white around surrounding it.

He wakes up finding his guard Donston over his bed, rummaging around his room.

"Donston?" Blaine shuffles onto his elbows, adjusting his eyes to the daylight.

"I'm sorry Sir. The guards are conducting a search." Donston walks back to the doorframe, whispering to a few more men in uniform who are standing outside of his room.

Blaine sits up fully,"For what?"

"The boy," one of the guards speaks up, "he's escaped."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **All I've got to say is sorry for the long wait!

**Chapter 5**

* * *

_Kurt_

* * *

He has no idea where he is, absolutely no idea.

Kurt had been running for what felt like hours, but probably only tallied up to thirty minutes until all four of his paws began to ache at the heel and his previous injuries began to swell in pain, then slowed down into a trot. He's sure he passed the same set of trees and boulders twice by the scent, but he can't be sure because of the odor from short spurt of rain a twenty minutes ago.

On top of being utterly lost, he's famished. His last meal was the meager piece of bread he picked at for dinner. He was now regretting his defiant departure from Mrs. Anderson and her son. He knows it's too early to complain about hunger, but he would've eaten more if he'd seen what his current circumstances were but this wasn't planned. This escape from the Andersons' household was an unexpected window of opportunity Kurt had to taken advantage of. The guard who stood post at his door had struck up a conversation with a housemaid after leading Kurt to the castle's latrine.

Kurt wondered what would happen to that guard now. He sincerely hoped it wasn't going to cause anything beyond getting fired because he'd been nothing but genuinely kind to him. His thoughts didn't resonate much on the topic though, he knew he had to do it — for his father, the man who is everything in his life. He'd just reach the wall and find out his next plan of action. It couldn't be too far now, he'd been traveling well past the morning and into the afternoon.

If these rich folk have anything to give, it's at least a short distance to the exit as a result of their impatience. Kurt breathed heavily, bringing his snout up in the air to smell any man made structures in the distance.

Only pine needles and rain. If he didn't reach the wall by sundown, camping overnight within the boundaries was a sure way to get captured. And what would they do to him then? What would happen to Burt?

Kurt lugged himself forward at a slow pace, exhaustion taking effect from the indefinite amount of time. He hadn't slept the night he left dinner. Determination still lit at his core despite the pain pulsing into the side of his leg, making him refuse to stop. Just a little longer, a little further, a little closer.

The burst of inspiration soon died when his paw caught underneath the root of a tree and he stumbled, submitting to the will of mother nature and curling up at the base of the large banyan that took him into it's abode.

With the new turn of events, Kurt accepted a two minute break. His eyelids dragged down as he curled further in until the tip of his tail brushed against his snout, the perfect breeze lulled him into an unplanned nap.

When he awoke, it was dark. Whether or not the two minute break was fifteen minutes or hours, Kurt could not say, but either way he had overslept. Scuttering onto all fours once again, and shaking off the stiffness in his spine, he began his journey once again.

* * *

_Blaine_

* * *

His father was furious.

After pouring out a series of expletives at Pip the incompetent man that had the responsibility of watching Kurt, the poor guard was dragged off — out of Elite territory if he was lucky. Somehow Blaine knew that wasn't the case.

A search team composed of Elite guardsmen was sent out mere minutes preceding the discovery of Kurt's absence. It was unsatisfactory to Mr. Anderson that nobody had turned up when the first five hours had passed, Odon's Lands was a considerably small portion if one were trying to find someone.

"I am torn about whether or not we should reveal the news of Kurt's escape to the Fosters." Mr. Anderson openly spoke surrounded by his high ranking guards and Blaine.

"Andersons are men of our word and this mishap could make Aaron think we don't value his concerns... It is only right that an Anderson take matters into his own hands to undo this." Blaine restrained himself from rolling his eyes about his father's obsession for glory. Next up, his father would surely place himself in gold armor and gallop back with the poor albino wrapped tightly in ropes on horseback.

"I would gladly lead my guards into the forefront of this search party Blaine, but my weekly gathering with the Elite board is tonight and I don't want to cause any hint of suspicion. The boy will be back by sunrise and then I will reveal our fault to the Fosters... with much detail about your courageous part in the capture."

Steeling himself, Blaine straightened at the sudden turn of events.

"I know you are a capable hunter and you know our property well, granted you're a novice of mounted archery, but we don't want the escapee injured anyways. You've tracked dozens of boars, deers... rabbits even. A manhunt is no different, except you might have to turn a few more stones as far as hiding places go. If there are any problems, Donston will be at your side... But I expect that you will only use him if it is absolutely crucial."

Another task that held weight in his family? This was getting even more unbelievable. His father was counting on him to restore one of the most valuable assets his family had retrieved. He would be crazy not to question the sudden onslaught of responsibility his father decided he was capable of withholding.

"And you want me... to find him?"

"Well, yes. Obviously, Cooper isn't present to complete the task"

He shouldn't have asked. Always second best, at best.

"I'll talk to Donston."

"Remember, you are upholding our name, not yours." His father reminded him before as he shutting him out of his office.

I remember more than any other Elite. Blaine huffed, a day has never passed in which he didn't hear something related to the importance of honor from his father. Blaine had his own motto about the whole situation, but it was no doubt unfavorable to his father's superior mind. His disbelief in his father's ideals didn't help to alleviate the weight of responsibility though, Blaine still had this unquenchable urge to please his father, whether he liked it or not he'd find this boy just to see his father's repressed content.

Blaine met Donston outside of the office, and kept his orders simple, "Gather a good team of trackers and meet me at the stables."

Donston nodded once and exited down the house's stairwell.

Blaine returned to his bedroom and waved off his handmaid for a bit of privacy to get prepared. It was true, Blaine had a few sets of custom armor, most as gifts. Although they were absolutely gorgeous to admire in all of their magnificent craftsmanship and precious embedded jewels they were incredibly impractical. Armor for shifters only posed as an inconvenience while transforming. From the single incident at the Foster's dining room, four Elites lost their specially crafted armor suits. Kurt's shift just wasn't expected. The armor is all show, a symbol of wealth and stature to set them apart from common folk, but when it comes to actually executing their duty it was more of a know you're in real trouble when an Elite guards show up with a minimum of boiled leather.

Blaine refused to believe Kurt posed as any lethal threat, but he was capable of transforming himself and thus he chose a basic chainmail tunic and boiled leather chestplate. The only thing that really separated low class and high class armor was the fine stitching and spacing between leather pallets and the embroidered paw prints on the shoulder pieces and full moon at the center near his heart.

It felt silly suiting up for a hunt against an omega boy who he didn't doubt had little to no formal combat training, but he knew his father wouldn't have it any other way. An Anderson had more integrity than to go running off into the forest in houseware garb. His thoughts were proven right when he arrived at the stable to find a gangly boy next Donston and the trackers. It was relayed he was Giso, a painter his father insisted document his "heroic victory".

Blaine nearly ordered Donston to grab the painter by his neckline and dump him into the castle's fountain, but it wasn't the poor guy's fault. Where did his father even find a professional painter on hand at this time of day!?

If Blaine didn't know any better, he'd say his father orchestrated this entire fiasco. With the painter, Giso, pushed aside, Blaine heaved himself up to mount his horse.

Donston took the liberty of obtaining some crucial tools for Blaine — a dagger, a rope, and a short sword, the last of which he'd hope he'd never have to use.

To an ordinary citizen a tracker would be a man with a pack of specially trained greyhounds, but in the Elite's case, it was actual men who had mastered the ability to stay in human form whilst using their keen sense of smell for unusually long periods of time.

Donston had already taken these tracking men for a short trip to Kurt's room to get an idea of the scent they were looking for. The Elite trackers were three burly brutes of men, who might as well have been in wolf form with their ridiculously unshaven faces and hair.

The whole team took off on horse originally, the three trackers in agreement that Kurt's scent lead out the back of the castle. Blaine assumed this routine had already been done by the original search party, he found it odd that they hadn't yet returned with the boy and genuinely worried for their wellbeing. As a precaution even the trackers decided to leave fully armed this time.

Odon's Lands or the Elites' Property, was massive for any family to own, but as a searching ground it should've been convenient to find a missing prisoner. To give the missing search party credit though, the vegetation was overwhelming and the rain and the massive forest muddled with the tracker's noses. They had to turn around quite a few times when they'd found a scent ended nowhere.

An especially strong clue came at the foot of a banyan tree wrapped with vines, there was an obvious depression in the mud and grass from a figure laying down. The trackers were positive the scent was from the boy who was sleeping upstairs.

But why would he lay down here, at small distance from the castle? Sure he might be weak from the injuries he sustained beforehand, but there was no signs of any fresh wounds. He was probably lost.

From that point on there wasn't much difficulty finding a trail. Kurt got sloppy, indentations were trodden into the ground.

* * *

_Kurt_

* * *

He found it.

The wall, a grey structure that seemed to reach at least fifty feet towards the sky with a watch tower Kurt would predict was sixty yards in the distance. He dared not to step out from the woods, until he devised a plan about how he'd scale the large obstacle and remain unseen.

The vines that reached to the top of the wall seemed strong, but Kurt feared they'd snap even with his light weight, but it was worth a try. Kurt strained his eyes, trying to make out anybody within the distant tower, but he didn't even see any source of light or fire for warmth. Even if it was occupied, the cover of night seemed to be sufficient to him. He melted down slowly back into his natural form and approached the wall after sneaking from the cover of the large oak tree he hid behind, staying low, but keeping a fast pace until he reached the wall. He took a firm grasp onto the vines to feel their strength. They were really thick and seemed firmly embedded, but it was still very possible that they could give way if he put all his weight on it. He decided to test this theory while still close to the ground, but even while pulling himself up he felt one of the roots snap. It was too dangerous to risk, he couldn't escape if he got a major injury, he'd have to approach the tower.

Just as he reached the edge of the forest once again, he heard scuffling, then a horse snorting.

Kurt panicked and rushed towards the nearest nook. He found a brush hugging a pine tree and quickly squeezed inside, earning a large scratch across his forearm, he tried desperately to keep the bleeding to a minimum by pressing his hand over it.

It was over, he knew he'd be found — the scent of blood was a dead giveaway.

Soon a series of galloping horses was heard and eventually the voices of men, not loud enough to make out their conversation.

Peeking through the brush, he saw four men trotting in a circle before the forest ended at the very spot he'd been pressed up against a tree before he approached the wall.

Kurt was surprised to recognize Blaine mounted, in entirely new type of clothing. Two of the armored men galloped to the wall's base, but shook their heads towards Blaine.

He had to think fast before they discovered his new route. He released the pressure on his nasty scratch, purposely wiping across it to collect as much blood as possible. He painted the blood onto the bark of the pine tree next to him.

Kurt then scattered down a random path, careful to stay out of sight and leave no tracks, and climbed up a particularly large tree that he believed could cover him even if someone happened to glance up.

The problem was, whilst climbing said tree he was completely exposed.

And that was it.

He heard a shout in the distance and soon the entourage was moving at full speed straight towards him.

Kurt was already more than half way up the tree, and decided to complete the climb and hopefully gain some advantage there as opposed to running on feet. He swung himself onto a large branch and shuffled forward, hopeful he could make it to another tree's branch.

"HALT!" A burly man's voice demanded. Kurt looked down to see four men, followed by Blaine and a scrawny unarmed citizen.

At a closer vantage point, despite his heavy breathing, scratched arm, and complete fear, he couldn't help but to admire Blaine's masculine leather armor. He laughed softly with his cheek pressed against the bark of the tree.

"What are you laughing at boy!? You're the one caught stark naked in a tree!" Another man's tenor shook with rage, "We're going to beat the living shit out of you when you get down!"

Kurt peered down and saw one of the men reaching for his arrow with his bow in hand.

"Alive Hugues." Blaine stressed, swinging himself off his horse and looking up. "The game's over Kurt. Get out of that tree."

Blaine spoke as if he was chastening a child who had been caught right handed. It rubbed him the wrong way. He wasn't going to make this easy.

Kurt dragged himself forward until he reached the branch of another tree.

"Kurt..." Blaine took a step back to get the escapee back into his view. He was silent for a moment when he caught view of the albino's full nakedness.

Kurt grabbed onto the other branch and moved forward. He was satisfied to hear Blaine's tone pitch higher when he discovered what he was doing, "Kurt! Don't hurt yourself, get down, you'll fall!"

"I'd rather die than get caught by you assholes."

"Don't make any drastic decisions, climb down!"

Kurt successfully managed to switch trees and shuffled to make a third switch. This one with a larger gap in between. He strained his hands trying to get a hold on the next branch.

"You're going to kill yourself." Blaine muttered, moving forward and beginning to climb the tree Kurt was attempting to get on.

"I'm going to jump." Kurt threatened as a last resort, "If you grab me, I'll jump head first!"

Blaine didn't know whether to take him seriously or not, but taking a second to look at Kurt, he saw desperation there. I mean the boy was shuffling naked at a dangerous height, he refused to give up.

Blaine sighed relenting, "What do you want?"

"Let me go." Kurt immediately responded.

Blaine frowned, "I can't do that."

"Then I'm jumping." Kurt promised, releasing one of his hands.

"I'll send a message to your father." Blaine was quick to make a vow.

"I don't know if you're telling the truth."

"I'll take you to him myself... but you can't stay. On my name."

Kurt thought for a minute. It was the only chance he had, he began crawling down then.

Once he reached the base of the tree, Blaine met him there with rope and tied his wrists, "Much safer down here." Blaine looked at the cut on his arm then back at him in what he thought showed sincere concern.

A blanket was thrown over him then, but he had to share a horse with whom he learned was Blaine's guard, Donston.

"When are we going to see him?" Kurt spoke softly, as they began moving at a steadily back towards the Andersons' mansion.

Blaine paused on his horse, turning his head to show Kurt his serious expression, "I lied."


End file.
